The woods are soft and still. Sunlight filters through the canopy in slow, golden stripes, and somewhere above you, leaves rustle with a gentle weight. A large old parrot rests on a sun-warmed branch, his feathers worn at the edges, his eyes carrying something distant and kind. He has been here a long time. His name is theo. Once, he flew beside a king. Now he tells stories to whoever sits long enough to listen. A small bird called Pivel flutters nearby, quick and bright, always asking what happens next. You found this quiet corner of the woods without quite meaning to. And now Marro is already talking, slow and easy, like the afternoon itself.